Tom Graham - A Fistful of Knuckles

Go on, answer, stop posturing and ANSWER!

‘Just out of interest, Patsy, how did you locate Denzil at the gym? Did you have an inside contact? Or did you go there to work out and just suddenly see him?’

Patsy was throwing punches at the air, snorting like a bull. He seemed to be no longer aware of Sam’s presence. Sam glanced back at Moustache-man and Ponytail, peering in nervously through the gap between caravans.

What’s happening here? They know there’ll be no fight here this evening, that it’s just a put-up job. Why’s Patsy focussing himself like this? He’s acting like Spider …

Acting like Spider. Yes. Spider was psyching himself up for a fight too … and yet neither of them was supposed to fight — both of them knew this whole thing was just a trap …

Unless …

Sam swallowed uneasily.

Unless they’re both intending to fight for real.

As Patsy snorted and threw blank punches, Sam raised a hand to his mouth and thought hard.

Does Patsy intend to ignore the deal and kill Spider here tonight? And does Spider intend to forget the operation and go instead for revenge on Patsy? Have both these fighters decided, independently, to use me to get to the other?

That was madness, surely. It was in Patsy’s interests to see Spider take the rap for the Denzil Obi murder, just as it was in Spider’s interests to see Patsy arrested for the crime he had committed. What the hell would a fight between them achieve?

Maybe they don’t think like that. Maybe all they think about is vengeance … battering each other’s heads in.

‘Patsy,’ Sam said carefully. ‘You do remember the deal we made, don’t you?’

‘All deals are off.’

It wasn’t Patsy who spoke. It was Spider. Without warning, Spider was stepping into the arena, stripped to the waist, revealing his lithe, tight musculature and pale skin, so blank and clean compared to Patsy’s inked and elaborate palimpsest of flesh.

Sam’s temper flared. What the hell was Ray playing at, sending Spider in so soon?! He needed time! He needed time to get Patsy to speak — and God knew he hadn’t said a word so far — he needed time for the lumbering thug to incriminate himself … and Annie needed time in the caravan alone with Tracy, persuading her, winning her trust, making her see sense.

Glaring around, Sam saw that in the gaps between the ring of parked vehicles there were faces — men’s faces, peering in — the faces of fairground folk, travellers, luggers, grafters — the faces of Patsy O’Riordan’s people, come to see the showdown, come to witness all the fun of the alternative fair. In that moment, Sam realised he’d been duped. Patsy had no intention of being part of some police scam to frame Spider. All he wanted was to be alone in the ring with the man who once tried to kill him.

And at the same time, Sam understood that Spider had used him too, that he had never intended to play along with the operation but instead wanted to get his revenge on the man who killed his blood brother — or die in the attempt.

Patsy and Spider stared silently at each other from opposite corners of the arena. Sam stood there, uncertain, dithering, feeling at once like the referee in a boxing match.

But this is no boxing match. And there’s no call for a referee because there’s no rules …

‘Ray!’ Sam hissed into the hidden microphone beneath his shirt. ‘It’s all gone tits up! Get down here now! And call for back-up!’

Instinctively, he waited for an answer — and then had to remind himself this was not a police radio.

I’ll just have to trust that he heard me.

But just as he thought that, he heard voices — Chris’s voice, and Ray’s — coming from just outside the arena.

Through one of the corner gaps, Sam saw them. They were being dragged roughly by large men. Ray was glowering fiercely, blood streaming from his nose where it drenched his moustache and dripped thickly from his chin. Chris was hollering and complaining, and as he turned his head from side to side Sam saw that one of his eyes was swollen shut from a huge, black bruise.

‘Ray! Chris!’ Sam called out instinctively. And at once he heard his own voice coming back to him from the radio receiver that was held aloft by one of the thugs. The receiver was hurled roughly to the ground and trampled. It smashed.

‘They sprang up outta nowhere, boss!’ howled Chris. He was silenced by a clip round the ear. ‘OI! Watch out!’

‘The bastards rushed us,’ Ray growled, trying to staunch the flow of blood down his face. ‘They got us … all of us … as you can see .’

Sam caught his meaning at once — they got all of us, as you can see …

Annie’s not here. He’s telling me that they didn’t get Annie. She’s okay. She’s clear.

That was something, at least.

Sam turned sharply on Patsy and bellowed: ‘What the hell’s going on here, you moron! These are my officers your thugs have assaulted! Let them go — right now! We had a deal, Patsy!’

And now, at last, Patsy became aware of him. He turned his nasty, misshapen, green-and-blue inked head, and bared his teeth in a vicious grin. His eyes flashed wickedly.

‘Patsy! I demand your monkey crew get their mitts off my officers!’

‘You’re in the arena,’ Patsy growled, his voice low and bestial. ‘ My arena …’

‘The deal, Patsy! Remember the deal!’

‘No deals … Not here …’

Sam turned towards Spider: ‘Back off, Spider! This isn’t the way!’

But Spider couldn’t hear him. His entire will was fixated upon his enemy. His eyes were blazing. Every muscle was pulled tight. He was locked on, like a missile — primed, ticking, seconds from detonation.

With his heart hammering and his mouth dry, Sam strode boldly towards the two men and planted himself between them.

‘I’m arresting both of you,’ he declared. ‘I’m arresting everybody !’

Patsy held out his right hand and placed it on Sam’s chest, right where the bug was taped. But it didn’t matter about that anymore — the operation had gone to crock. Patsy’s small, bruised, scabby, painted hand rested on Sam for a moment — lightly, as if he were checking his heartbeat — and then, with a sudden show of strength that seemed to come out of nowhere, he shoved Sam back. Sam stumbled and fell, landing heavily on his backside in the churned-up mud of the arena.

Looking up, he saw Patsy and Spider launch at each other like head-on express trains. They slammed together with a shocking impact, and then it was all fists, a firestorm of fists, so fast and frenzied that they became a blur of colour. Blood splattered against the side of one of the caravans.

Sam clambered to his feet and scrambled away, like he was avoiding the spinning blades of some murderous machine run amok. He saw the faces of men pressing in at every gap between the vehicles, their eyes wide, their lips drawn back, their teeth bared as they lapped up the ferocious violence exploding and thudding in the arena. He even saw Ray’s face, streaming with blood, as he peered in. And for a moment he glimpsed Chris, trying to see what the hell was going on with just his one good eye.

Turning back to the fight, Sam saw Spider hurling a series of truly monumental blows against Patsy’s face. His fists slammed into the bigger man like hurled mallets, flinging Patsy’s head back and to the side, over and over. Patsy flailed blindly, trying to defend himself, but he was retreating blindly. He slammed against the side of one of the caravans, struggling to keep himself upright against it.

I don’t believe it! Spider’s battering him! He’s winning!